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by r. c. PENDLETON. | Devoted to Literature, Internal Improvement, Commerce, Agriculture, Foreign and Dome; ; msement, See. jc. r. iianlfiter, puinter. VOL. I. THE IP©©-I? is published in the city of Macon every Saturday Morning, at three dollars in advance, four dollars at the end of the year—two dollars for six months; and mailed to country subscribers by the earliest mails, enveloped by good strong wrappers, with legible direc tions. No subscription received for a less period than six months —and no paper discontinued, until all arrears are paid. Advertisements will be inserted at the usual rates of advertising, with a reasonable deduction to yearly ad -33?* Any person forwarding a ten dollar bill, (post paid,) shall receive four copies, for one year, to be sent to differeut persons, as directed. S3r Letters, on business, either to the Publisher or Editor, must com e post paid to insure attention. POETRY. From the Metropolitan. SECOND NIGHT. BY MRS. ARDY. They tell me thou pale and thoughtful sage, That thine eye can glance o’er Life’s coming page ; That the shadows in time’s dim glass concealed, To thy piercing gaze are all revealed. When the infant smiles on its mother’s knee, Thou dost not joy in its playful glee, Thou canst tell the hour when the world shall win That sportive spirit to guile and sin. The maiden sits in her summer bower, Brighter in bloom than its fairest flower; But thy look is sad for thou know’st her doom Is a fading cheek and an early tomb. The bride goes forth from the home of youth, She trusts in her faithful lover's truth; But they tears at the boding vision start Os a broken vow and a blighted heart. Soldiers march on in their proud array, Their drums are beating, their colors gav, The crowd exults in their high career, But their death dirge sounds in thy shuddering ear. These are the records that numbers tell Os the force of thy wonder working spell; But for me, I cannot deem that Heaven Has been so fatal to mortals giten. Oh! not for worlds would I own the power To lift the veil of one distant hour, And sadly on youth and joy to gaze, Knowing the ills of their coming daj s. On the past I love to turn my eyes, My present blessings I fondly prize; And when doomed mistortunes to deplore, I trust I have better days in store. But I would not wish on those days to look, They are safely kept in God’s secret book; And my heart would grieve, were his wise design Profaned by a feeble glance like thine. MISCELLANEOUS. From the Knickerbocker. OLD AGE AND BEAUTY. BY GRACE GRAFTON. Once upon a time, a very beautiful lady re ceived a strange visitor. She was sitting alone in her dressing-room, stripped ol all the fash ionable ornaini nts that usually decked her person, and which were now strewed around her in every direction. Some were tossed over the bacds of chairs; others she was arranging in her armoire; and the most costly glittered in an open casket on the toilette tabic. She had risen la’c, and was now rectifying the disorders of the preceding night; for she had cast oIF her finery in hasty negligence, after having, at a late hour taken leave of a large circle of acquaintance, who had crowded her drawing-rooms, tasted her sw rets, and basked in her smiles, for a few brief hours, and then left her to—her own thoughts. These she soon buried in slot p ; but the next morning—ah ! how ‘stale and unprofitable’ it som times appears ! —the next morning this lady felt strangely weary; late hours began to have an effect upon her, for which she was puzzled to account. She sank into an easy chair, when her labors were over, and it so chanced that the large mirror, swing ing over the toilette, inclined a little, so as to reflect her whole person. She naturally enough fixed an anxious gaze on that much admired form ; but alas ! a few hours seemed to have wrought sad changes there. All her boasted charms appeared to have been thrown aside with the elegant apparel that had so lately .adorned her. ‘ How unbecoming these loose robes are !’ ‘and yet 1 used not to think so,’ she added with a sigh. ‘ And this bonnet de unit —l never before thought it so frightful: pshaw ! it makes an old woman of me!’ So saying, she removed the offending cap, and throwing it from her, began to arrange her fine tresses into a more becoming head-dress; hut the plain-spoken mirror before her told such home truths, in its own quiet, reflective manner, that she found her task an irksome one, and grew fretful with her fruitless endeavors to restore to her hair its glossy blackness, and to her face its dimpled charms. ‘ I thought something was wrong,’ said she, as she looked up languidly at a side window, where the upper blinds had been left open ; ‘ it is that odious light streaming in from above, so unbecomingly, that makes me look so hag gard this morning ; and then the fatigue of so large a party. How beautiful Euphrosyne looked !’ continued she m> singly. ‘ She was a little child wden I made my debut on the stage of fashion, and now, behold her radiant MACON, (Ga.) SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 29, 1838. in the pr< ud loveliness of a youthful matron ! Time was when I could have matched hei charms, but now Well, well; I was never before so forcibly reminded of the altera tion a few years can make. How changed 1 look ! How very, very wretched and nervous I feel this morning!’ Again she turned her languid eyes upward, toward the intrusive, tell tale beam ; glanced them once more over the mirror, and started with ifiright; for, reflected there, she perceived a dimly-defined but most unsightly form bending over her. ‘ I know thee, insiduous intruder!’ cried she covering her face with her hands : ‘ I have had warnings of thy approach, and now thou art here ; yet I defy thee !” “ Hush, hush !’ said the calm, hollow voice of Old Age, for no other than he was the strange visitor, ‘hush! do not deny me; I have not jet 1 M my hand upon thee, red on thyself it must depend whether my sure touch be that of a friend or an enemy; whether the dominion 1 shall surely exercise over thy fate, he that ofa gentle master, oi a stern tyrant.’ While tliese words were sounding omnious ly within her heart, the lady endeavored to turn a deaf car to their import. She rose from the dressing-table, rang the bell, and ordered her maid to shut the blinds, and keep them better closed in future. She then gave some direc tions respecting 1 ei wardrobe, and throwing herself on a sofa, fell into a reverie, in which she laid vigorous plans for defeating the designs of Age. ‘ I will so disguise myself,’ thought she ‘ that the wretch w ill r;ot know me. His presence here is a heavy burthen, and it would be mortifying past endurance, to be recognised by such an antediluvian monster, in the midst of society, from hence forward and for ever more to have mj T name coupled with his.’ So the next time she dressed for company, her own hair was gathered away oul of sight, and some shining ringlets were substituted in its place ; and, in addition to the becoming eff-ct ofa new and elegant head-dress, a slight tinge of rough concealed the ravages time had made on her co nplexion : and thus, indeed, she might be sai 1 to defy Old Age ; for though lie frequently hovered about her, and whispered his melan choly forhodings in her ear, she had the satisfac tion to perc.live, that in company, at least, no one was aware of his presence but herself. It was in the solitude of her own boudoir, that Old Age became her persecutor ; when the excitement of admiration was over; the person disrobed of its gay attire, the counte nance of its false ornaments, and forced smiles; ah ! Age claimed her then, and grew familiar. She never seated herself at her toilette, but he placed himself at her side, and preached to her, and pried into her heart, and annoyed her so incessantly, that there was no resources for her but, 'o array herself with skill, and fly to com panj" again for relief. It was a sad sight—her worn countenance, and faded form, beneath the frail disguises of fashion. 4 Why so weary of me already?” said Age to her, one day, when he saw the advantage he was gaining; ‘ why so resolute to ward off my hand, and turn from me thycountenar.ee ? Let us be friends.’ ‘ Friends !’cried the faded beauty, ‘ thou my friend!—thou art my destroyer; and as I once defied thee, so now I fear thee.’ ‘Vain wbman !’ murmured her tormentor, ‘ vet again I warn thee, with thyself it rests whether I prove thy tyrant or thy friend. The time approaches when I must make myself visible to the whole world as thy inseparable companion. Why should we appear as ene mies ?’ ‘ Mow,’said she indignantly,‘how canst thou have the hardihood to imagine that I will ac knowledge companionship with one who has wot ked me such evil ? Shan eon thee! for the mischief thou has done to my once raven hair! Out upon the ! for a thief, who art robbing me one by one of my j early teeth; who hast stolen away the sweetness of my voice,withered mv lilies, and faded my roses !’ Here, over come with emotion, she pressed her handker chief to her eyes, and turning into a secluded path, sought to hide her mortification in the solitude of natmc, while OH Age shrugged his shoulders, and followed after, looking very grave and determined. This short colloquy between Age and wan. ing Beauty took place in some fine pleasure grounds, to which a large party had resorted to spend the day, and dine in the open air. The cheerful light of a summer sun, flickering through the foliage of the groves, or glancing across the open, grassy slopes, shed lustre on many a fair form, and carried joy to many a youthful heart. Each lovely, laughing girl had her admirer,some companion young and gay as herself; and in merry groups they wandered along the paths, or seated themselves on the turf, beneath the shade of over-hanging boughs. Tiiis bright light of day found no correspond ing ray within the bo-oin ofthc cidcvant beauty. The uncomfortable thought possessed her, that it displaj-ed to view her unseemly companion, and therefore had she turned aside, and re proached him so bitterly ; and then retired, neglected and disconsolate, into an unfrequen ted path. Thither, as we have observed, Age followed her, and down they sat together on the first scat that presented itself. This was so placed as to command a view of surpassing beaut}', in the contemplation of which, selfish griefs and unworthy complainings might well be fovgotton. A sudden opening in the woods revealed the broad river below, with its waters rolling silently onward, like the ceaseless tide oftime. Waving woods and yellow corn-fields graced its banks, and here and there some pleasant dwelling reared its white walls among the trees ; and in the back-ground a huge bank | of blue and misty mountains bounded the | view. Tranquility stole into the poor lady’s heart, as she gazed long and silently on the woods, and hills, and beaming river; and she saw, without repugnance, that Age was still beside her. ‘I am here,’ said he, with a smile, and drew closer toward her, ands! e answered mildly: ‘Be silent now, Old Age, and let the sweet voices of my youth speak to me in these wild woods, and sparkling waters ;’ and Age prudently took the hint, and was still. When he spoke again, and said, ‘ Thou dost not hate now, while we are alone with nature V she answered, inn subdued to? e: ‘Alas! lean resist thee no longer; but oh! thou hast done I me cruel wrong!’ ‘Be wise/continued he, ‘and I will amply repay thee for ail 1 have taken from thee ; for know, proud woman, that the same hand which clothed thee with beauty, directed me here to rob thee of thy charms, and fashion thee lor the grave.’ ‘ Dost thou lead me to the grave!’ said the beauty, with a slight shudder. ‘ Not yet,’ replied he, soothingly; ‘ but even unto the grave will I reconcile thee, if thou wilt but listen, through me, to the voice of him who sent me.’ * Here I can listen to thee,’ said sire ; * thy | voice chimes in, passing well, with the sweet melodies of nature. If thou wouldst but leave me to myself, and hush thy mournful croaking in the gay circles of fashion. ‘I cannot leave thee for a moment,’ said Age, ‘for I tell thee I am sent by one far mightier than I, to fulfil thy destiny here, and j prepare thee for the mysteries of thy coming | dome. Look upon me, then, as a messenger ofiove, not of wrath, and thrice happy shall bo j our communion together.’ It was fortunate for this once beautiful wo ; man, that she had sufficient sense and good feeling to understand every word that Uid Age said to her; and had prudence eno gh, bc j side to acknowledge him ever after as a friend ; for he proved a sage counsellor, and guided her wisely through the last scenes of life; i and during each trial of sickness and infirmity endued her with resignation, and whispered ! heavenly consolation to her inmost soul. lie soon persuaded her to throw aside every vain trapping ; and then, with his own gentle | hand, smoothed her gray hairs across her brow, and blended benevolent smiles with the growing wrinkles. Thus, though she was no longer lovely to’ look upon, she became recon ciled to herself, and ceaseing to pine for the I charms of which Age had divested her, she i wrapped herself in a mantle of gray, and quietly descended with him into the vale of years. LETTER WRITING —TRAVELLING. BY N. P. WILLIS. * * I am of opinion, dear doctor, that a let ter to be read should have marginal references, to the stale of the writer’s digestion, and the quality of his pen and ink at the time of writing. These matters, if they do not affect a man’s belief in a future state, very sensibly operate upon his sty le of com position, (so with me at least) upon his sen timents and minor morals. Like most other tiiis be-printed country, I commenced authorship at precisely the wrong end—criticism. Never having put my hat upon one or two grown-up thoughts, I still feel myself qualified to pronounce upon any man’s literary stature, from Walter Scott to whom you please. God forgive me! 1 re member (under this delusion of Sathan) sitting down to review a book by one of the most sensible women in the country. It was a pleasant morning—favorable symptom for the author. I wrote the name of the book at the head of a clean sheet of Bath post, and the nib of my pen capered nimbly away into a flour ish, in a fashion to coax praise out of a pump ki i. What but courtesy on a morning so bright and with so smooth a pen ? I was in the middle ofthe page, taking breath, after a long and lauditory sentence, when puff through the window came a gust of air, labelled for the bare nevres. (If you have ever been in Bos ton, perhaps yon observed that an east wind in that city of blue n ises in June, gives you a I sensation like being suddenly deprived of your j skin.) In a shudder of disgust, I bore down the dot of an i, and my pen, like an over ‘tired friend,’ gave way under the pressure. With the wind in that same quarter, dexterity died. After vain efforts to mend my pen to its original ( daintiness, I amputated the nib to a broad working stump, and aimed it doggedly at the ! beginning of anew paragiaph. But my wits j had gone about with the grass hopper on the church steeple. Nothing would trickle from that stumpy quill, either graceful or gracious, and having looked through the book, but with a view to find matter to praise, I was obliged to run it over anew to forage for the cast wind. ‘ Hence, the milk in the cocoa nut,’ as the showman says of the monkey’s slealing children. I wrote a savage review, which the reader was expected to believe contained the opinions ol the reviewer ! ! Oh, Jupiter ! All this is to apologize, not for my own let te , which I intend shall be a pattern of good humor, but fora passage in your last, (if writ ten upon a hard egg, you should have men tioned : t in the margin,) in which, apropos of my jaunt to the Chemung, you accuse me of being glad to get away from my hermitage. I could write you a sermon now on the na turc of content, but you would say the very lext is apocrypliical. My ‘lastly’ however | would go to prove that there is bigotry in re | tirement, ns in all things either good or pleasur ii able. The eye that never grows fnmil nr with : nr t ire, need freshening from all things else. A r.o.n, a chair, a musical instrument, a horse, a I dog, the road that you drive daily, and the well j you drink from, are all more prized when left and returned to. The habit of turning back I daily from a certain mile-stone, in your drive j makes that mile- tone after a while, a prison wall. It is pleasant to pass it, though the road beyond be less beautiful. If I were once more * brave Master Shoe-tie, the great traveller,’ it would irk me, I dare say, to ride thiity miles in a rail-car drawn by one slow horse. Yet it is a pleasant ‘ lark’ now, to run down to Ithaca for an g':f, in this drowsy conveyance though I exchange a cool cottage for a fly nest, ‘ lavendered linen,’ for abominable cot ton, and the sci vice of civil William, lor the | ‘ young lady who takes care ofthe chambers.’ I like to know what reason 1 have to keep my temper among my household gods. I like to pay an extravagant bill for villainous enter j tainment abroad, and come back to escape ru in in the luxuries of home. Doctor ! were you a vagabond for years together ? I know you have hung your hat on ' the South Pole, but you are one of those ‘friend ofthc family’men, who will travel from Dan to Beersheba,and be at no charges for lodging. You cannot understand, I think, the life from which I have escaped ; the life of* mine ease in mine inn.’ Pleasant mockery! You have ! never had the hotel fever; never sickened of the copperplate human faces, met exclusive ly in those homes ofthc homeless ; never have gone distracted at the eternal one piece ol soap, | and the last occupant’s tooth-brush and cigar! To be slighted any hour of the evening for a I pair of slippers and a candlestick; to sleep and wake amid the din of animal wants, com plaining and supplied ; to hear no variety of human tone but the expression of these baser ; necessities—to be waited on either by fel lows who would bring your coffin as uncon cernedly as your breakfast, or by a woman who is rude, because insulted when kind ; to lie always in strange beds ; to go home to a house of strangers ; to be weary without pity, sick without soothing, sad without sympathy ; to sit at twilight by your lonely window, in some strange city, and a heart which a child’s voice would dissolve in tenderness, to see door after door open and close upon fathers, bro thers, friend expected and welcomed by the be loved and the beloving ; these are costly mi series against which I almost hourly weigh my cheaper happiness in a home! Yet this is the life pined after by the grown-up boy ; the life called fascinating and mystified in romance; the j life dear Doctor, for which even yourself can j fancy lam ‘imping my wing’ anew ! Oh, no ! j I have served seven years lor this Rachel of contentment, and my heart is no Laban to put me off with a Leah. TRAVELLING SKETCHES. Picture of Oregon. —The following synop sis, as it were, of the great Oregon Country, and region of the Rocky Mountains, is taken from a review of Parker’s recent work in the last number of the Knickerbocker : “ Spread before you, reader, a map of that portion ofthis continent which stretches west ward from a line with the Council Bluffs, on the ( Missouri river, and with the above named work ; in your hand, follow its author in all his journey. ! ings, until you reach with him that bound coast, where mountain barriers repel the dark rolling waves ofthe Pacific, which stretch without an intervening island, for five thousand miles, to Japan. What a vast extent of country you : have traversed ; how sublime the works ofthe Creator, through which you have taken your way ! We lack space to follow our author in the detail of his wanderings, and shall not, i thereiorc attempt a notice at large ofthe volume under consideration, but shall endeavor to present, in a general view, some of the most prominent features. Mr. Parker was sent out by the American Board of Foreign Missions, and he appears to have been emminently faith- j ; ful to his trust, amidst numerous perils, and j privations which are recorded, not with vain j boasting and exaggeration, but with becoming j modesty and brevity. Ilis descriptions, indeed j are all of them graphic, without being minute j or tedious. Before reaching the Black Hills, ; ho places before us the prairies, rolling in j immense seas of verdure, on which millions of ; tons of grass grow up but to rot on the groun I !or feed whole leagues of flame; over which sweep the cool breezes, like the trade winds ofthe ocean, and into whose green recesses bright-eyed antelopes bound away, with half, whistling snuff, leaving the fleetest bound hopelessly in the rear. There herd the buffaloes, by thousands together, dotting the landscaj e, seeming scarce so large as rabits when sur veyed at a distance from some verdant bluff, swelling in the emarald waste. Sublimcr far, and upon a more magnificent scale, are the scenes among the Rocky Mountains. Here are the visible footsteps of God ! Yonder, mounting peak above peak, ten thousand feet heavenward, to regions of perpetual snow, rise the Titans of that mighty region. Here the traveller treads his winding way through passages so narrow that the towering perpen dicular cliffs throw a dim twilight gloom upon his path,even at mid-day. Anon he emerges and lo ! a caterat descends a distant mountain like a belt of snowy foam, girdii g its giant 1 sides. On one hand mountains, spread out into horizontal planes, fome reunded like domes, and others terminating the forms of pillars, pyramids, and castles; on the other, vast circular embankments thrown up by volcanic fires, mark the site of a yawning crater ; while far below, perchance, a river dashes its way through a narrow rocky passage, with a deep toned roar,in wind ing mazes, in mist and darkness. Fol -I>w the voyager, ns he descends the Cos. 1 nubia, subject to winds, rapids and falls, two hundred miles Loin any whites, and amid tribes of stianger Indiai s, all speaking a different language. Here, for miles, stretches a per pendicular basaltic wall three are four hun. dred feet in height ; there foam the boiling eddies, and rush the varying currents; on one side opens a view of rolling prairies, and through a rocky vista oil the other, the beams of the morning sun. Now the traveller passes through a forest of trees, standing in their natural positions, in the bed of the river twenty feet below the water’s surface. Passing these he comes to a group of islands, lying high in the stream, piled with the coffin-canoes ofthe uat ves, filled with their dead, and covered with mats and split plank. He anchors for a while at a wharf or natural basalt and presently pro ceeds on his way, gliding now in solemn silence, and now interrupted by the roar of the distant rapid, gradually growing on the ear until the breaking water and feathery foam arise to the view. Pausing under a rocky cavern, by the shore, formed of semi-circular masses which have overbrowed the stream for ages, ‘ frowning terrible, impossible to climb,’ he awaits the morning; listening during the night watches to hear the distant cliffs ‘ reverberate the sound Os parting fragments tubling from on high.’ Such are the features of the missionary’s course, until the boundary ofthe ‘Far West’ is reached, and he reposes for a time, from his long and toilsome journey.” SELF-EDUCATION. BY WM. WIRT. And ibis leads me, gentlemen, to another remark, to which I invite your altention. It is this : The education, moral and intellectual, of every individual must chiefly be his own work, ll seems to be supposed, that if a young man be sent first to a grammar school,and then to college, he must of course become a scho lar ; ami the pupil himself, is apt to imagine that he is to be the mere passive recipient of instruction, as lie is ofthe light and atmosphere which surround him. But this dream of indo lence must be dissipated, and you must be active and vigorous co-operators with your teachers, and work out your own distinction, with ail ardor that cannot be quenched, a per severance that considers nothing done whilst any thing yet remains to be done. Rely upon it, that the ancients were right— Ques. que suae fortuncic sober, both in morals and intellect, we give their final shape to our own characters, and thus become emphatical ly the architect of our own fortunes. How else should it happen, that young men who have had precisely the same opportunities, should be continually presenting us with such different results, and rushing to such opposite destinies ? Difference of talent, will not solve it, because that difference is very often in favor of the disappointed candidate. You shall see isssuing from the walls of the same school—nay, sometimes from the bosom of of the same family—two young men, of whom the one shall be admitted to boa genius of high order, the other scarcely above the point of mediocrity ; yet you will see the genius sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity and wretchedness ; while on the ether hand, you will see the mediocre plodding his slow but sure way up the hill of life, gaining steadfast footing at every step, and mounting at length to emi nence and distinction, an ornament to hia family, a blessing to his country. Now, whose work is this ? Manifestly their own. They are the architects of their respective fortunes. The best seminary of learning that can open its portals to you, can do no more than afford \ outlie opportunity of instruction, but it will depend at least on yourselves whether you will be instructed or not, or to what point you will push your instruction. And ofthis be assur ed—l speak from observation, a certain truth —There is no excellence without great labor. It is the fiat of Fate, from which no power of genius can absolve youth. Genius unexerted is like the [ oor moth, that flutters around a candle till it scorclies itself to death. If genius be desired at all, it is only of that great and magnanimous kind, which like the Condor of South America, pitches from the summit of Cbimboraza above the clouds, and sustains itself with pleasure in that imperial region, with an energy rather invigorated than weakened by the eflbrt. It is the capacity for high and long continued exertion—this vigorous power of profound and searching investigation—this careering and wide-sweeping comprehension of mind—and those long reaches of thought that Pluck bright boner from the pale-faced moon, Or dive into the bottom ofthe deep, Where fathom-line can never touch the ground, And drag up drowned honor by the locks. This is the prowess and these the hardy achievements which are to enrol your names among the great men ofthe earth. But how are you to gain the nerve and the courage for er.terprizes of this pith and mo ment ? I will tell you : As Milo gained that hoc signo vinces—for this must be your work not that of your teachers. Be you not wanting to yourselves, and you will accomplish all that your parents, friends and country have a right to expect. Adversity is the trial of principle. Without it a man hardly knows whether he is an honest man. Religion is the best armor in the world, but the worst cloak. NO. 49-